A Cuppa Murder
by Grapefruit Wit
Summary: Sometime during Season One Sherlock and John receive a case about a dead reporter. This leads them to seek help from a young female specialist. She helps them solve the case and impresses John with her ability to stand up to Sherlock.


**A Cuppa Murder**

"What about her?"

"No."

"Her?"

"No."

"Why, what's wrong with her?"

"She smokes, spends all her money on clothes and alcohol and already has a boyfriend." John, please, can we stop this and get back to work?"

"No, not until we find you a date."

"I don't need a date."

"Yes; Sarah wants us to go out and feels that you would be more comfortable if you had a date of your own instead of, you know-"

"Being the third wheel? Having a desperate woman hanging onto me all night, trying to impress me with her manufactured looks and public education; yes, that certainly would make me comfortable."

"Couldn't you just put aside your distaste for humanity for _one_ evening and go on this double date?"

"I'll get back to you on that."

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, answering his mobile. "On our way."

"Lestrade?"

"Yes. There's been a murder."

For Sherlock Holmes, a good murder meant a good case. Sure, there was always the possibility it was an accident or a crime of passion. But Lestrade never bothered him with those; those were common crimes, crimes anyone at any time could commit. What interested him were the real killers, men and women who planned and plotted, who took the time to cover their tracks and make the chase more difficult. Hunting sheep was easy; hunting a fox was harder.

"Hope I didn't interrupt anything," Lestrade said, showing Holmes and Watson into his office.

"Well, actually-"began John.

"No, no, not at all," Sherlock said with lilting gravitas, "In fact, you've done me a huge favour."

"Have I?" Lestrade had learned since working Holmes to turn his look of general confusion into one of deadpan seriousness. "Well let's hope you can do the same and get this solved. Quick."

"Alright, what is it?"

"Haley Greyson, aged 26, journalist for _The Times_ was found dead this morning."

"Where?"

"In her cubicle. The janitor found her when he reported for work. There was no one else in the building."

"Autopsy?"

"Being performed now."

"Good. As soon as you've got the results let me know."

"I suppose we're going to _The Times_, then?" Watson asked as their taxi sped across London.

"You suppose correctly."

A quick search revealed to Sherlock that Haley Greyson was not of importance to _The Times_. Her pieces were all puff; generally covering topics the general populace might actually read if it were to be believed the general public read _The Times_ at all. Her latest article dealt with the popularity of 3D movies in the United States- not something to kill over.

"It's clean,' Sherlock said when their police escort brought them to Haley Greystone's cubicle.

"Clean? But there's stuff everywhere." said Watson.

"It's too clean. You-" he asked the nearest policeman, "did the janitor clean this cubicle? Did he touch it _at all_ before you arrived?"

"Nah, he said he on'y touched the girl, to see if she was still alive or not."

The cubicle did not look clean to Watson. Books and files were lined on the desktop, crowding out any space there may have been for pictures or other personal touches. Sticky notes were hung all around the walls in little clusters.

"Sorry," he said to Sherlock, "clean?"

"Look at all the other desks here; the books and files are not lined, they're stacked in piles. The information needs to stay current, at hand, readily available. Things that get lined up are seldom used. And here," he pointed to two empty spaces on the walls, "there are notes missing. Now, she probably took a laptop to and from work. So if she was working late, where is the laptop? Her coat? Her purse?"

Acting quickly on an idea that had struck he walked to the break room and inspected the fridge.

"No meal with 'Haley' on it either."

"Maybe she ordered in," offered Watson.

"No. There were no menus, sauce packets or leftover napkins in any of the drawers."

"She could've gone out, taken a break, maybe been followed back."

"No, not that either. The mug rings and crumbs lodged in the seams of her desk tell us she always ate here, at work, but not last night."

"How-?"

"There was no trash in the bin. The janitor didn't collect it, so if she had eaten here last night there would at least have been a used napkin or empty sandwich wrapper, which means she probably wasn't here to work, she was here to grab something, something the killer wanted."

"And how do we find out what that is?"

"We call Lizzie."

"Sorry, who?"

Sherlock arranged for them to meet Lizzie at her flat.

"It's open!" she called as Sherlock knocked on the door.

Before they could get uncomfortable standing idly in the hallway Lizzie came to welcome them in.

"John Watson," John said as he stuck out his hand.

"Nice to meet you. I've read your blog a few times- interesting stuff. And I'm sure Mr. Holmes has told you everything he has already learned about me, so I won't bother repeating. Please, have a seat."

She walked back into the kitchen then shouted a few seconds later, "How do you take it?"

"Plain for me, thanks," said Sherlock and then explained to John, "tea."

"Oh, plain for me too, please," John called back.

She returned bearing a tray set with tea and biscuits.

"Your own blend I take it?" Sherlock said.

"Yes. And the cookies are an original too, though they are based on a French recipe a couple of centuries old. Please, help yourselves."

"Don't mind if I do," said John.

"Now, you said you needed to talk to me about Haley Greystone?"

"Yes. She was found dead this morning in her cubicle at _The Times_; some of her things were missing, including information on her latest piece. What I need to know is what she was working on and whether or not she made any enemies in doing so."

"I talked to her just last week, about the tea trade, I believe. She never told me exactly what she was working on, but she did say that she was hoping it would be her big break, the thing that got her more serious pieces."

"What about the tea trade?"

"Well, she wanted to know a little about the history, the counter-trade, monopolies, things like that. I'll send along the documents I gave her and the list of recommended readings."

"What about names? Did she ever mention any company in specific?"

"No, I'm sorry. She was good at keeping her intentions vague, though I think it had more to do with jealousy than fear."

"Meaning she didn't want anyone to steal her idea? These are great, by the way," said Watson.

"Do you mind if I use your toilet?" Sherlock stood, obviously expecting an answer in the affirmative.

"Not at all. Just judge graciously, if you would be so kind."

Watson noted the smug look on Lizzie's face. She knew exactly what Sherlock was up to and just how much he would soon know about her life and habits.

"So you read my blog?"

"I've read it a couple of times, then looked up Sherlock's own website, of course. It's quite fascinating."

"Look, um, I know this is sudden and rather awkward, but would you go on a date with Sherlock?"

"He can't have asked you to ask me that, so what's going on?"

"It's just that my friend- girlfriend, Sarah, wants to go out on a double date but Sherlock refuses to believe that there is anyone suitable."

"That's a rather strange request but I won't say no. Hopefully he won't find so much wrong with me that he despairs of my very existence after this."

At that moment Sherlock reappeared.

"Come, Watson, I think we're done here. Thank you for the tea, although I would suggest a little less Assam next time. It overpowers the Darjeeling."

"What'd you think?" Watson asked during their next taxi ride.

"Of what?"

"Of her- of Lizzie."

"That she's not the killer."

"I didn't know she was a suspect."

"And now you don't have to worry about it."

"Good. Because- oh, never mind."

Sherlock gave a sidelong glance at John but decided not to pry. They had arrived at the morgue and the corporeal details of Haley Greystone were a more intriguing prospect.

"Findings?" he demanded.

"Died of a drug overdose."

"Drugs? Really, what kind?" Watson asked, leaning in to take a look at the body himself.

"Caffeine."

"Ohhh. Oh I see. Our killer has a sense of humor; or at the very least of justice. Now, Watson, what else does this tell us?"

"That…she…probably didn't administer it herself?"

"Come now, Watson, we already knew that. No, it means she was probably killed somewhere else."

"But I thought she went to her office to try and get away from the murderer."

"This changes things. In high enough doses caffeine is an emetic, so it stands to reason that if it had been administered while she was in the office there would be more evidence. It also causes convulsions and since there are no ligature marks on the body and her cubicle was tidy, she must have died somewhere else."

"Okay, any leads on where that might be?"

"No. No, not yet."

Sherlock had put three patches on his arm and was lying on the couch, thinking. Tea was certainly not an anomalous substance in London, so there was no real lead there. The killer had stripped Haley's cubicle of any relevant reference and Lestrade was still searching her flat. Right now she was just a dot on a blank page.

"I brought you some tea, dears. Thought you might need it, what with the difficult case and all."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Are you making any progress? Death by caffeine, what a strange way to go. I've had a few too many teas in my day, but just got the awful shakes, nothing more."

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Do try and get some sleep tonight, boys, you both work too hard."

"Will do, Mrs. Hudson, thank you," Watson replied. She was a sweet old lady but had few people to talk to, so she tried to talk to Sherlock and John. John normally indulged her but her drivel usually served only to irritate Sherlock.

"Tea, Sherlock?"

"None for me, thanks."

"Hm, really not as good as Lizzie's. We should look into getting better quality."

"Why would you want that? It's a staple, a necessity, like rice. You don't buy fancy rice when normal rice does the job."

Sherlock knew that he was missing something, some connection or omission that would kick the investigation back in gear, and it made him a bit more terse than normal. Watson continued to drink his tea in silence.

"Jacket," he said in response to a chime that sounded from his phone.

Watson resigned himself to only a look of consternation and grabbed the phone.

"It's a text- from Lizzie," he said.

"Read it."

Documents Sent. Also remembered she said she never drank Whinging brand. Hope it helps.

"Excellent," said Sherlock. "First thing tomorrow we'll go over to the Whinging Corporate Office. And I'll take that tea now."

"Have you ever seen this girl before?" Sherlock asked the security guard behind the desk at Whinging Corporate.

"Yeah, she's some reporter. Came 'ere a few times. Must have made a nuisance of herself 'cause I was told that if she ever came I wasn't to allow her in."

"And were you told why she was being banned?"

"No sir."

"Did she ever tell you what she was coming here for?"

"She said she was doing a piece about our Bicentennial; wanted to write it up for her paper. She had to apply for a visitor's badge. I can pull up her paperwork if you'd like."

"Yes, do that please."

Sherlock took a quick look at the form. There was nothing of importance, just the redundant information that she was lying about her reason for being there and that she suffered from carpal tunnel syndrome.

"One last question- do you know who it was she spoke to?"

"That would be our president, Mr., soon-to-be-Sir, Marcus Bristol."

"Splendid. We'll need to speak with him, right away. And we won't be needing to fill out these forms, this is official police business."

He set down one of Lestrade's business cards and began walking towards the elevator. The astonished guard did not try and stop them but merely began filling out the paperwork himself.

Mr., soon-to-be Sir, Bristol's office was an old Victorian monstrosity. The walls were lined with various paraphernalia related to the tea trade spanning the entire life of the company and representing more than five countries.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" he said, rising from behind his ledger desk.

"When did you last meet with Miss Greystone?"

The immediate mention of Hlaley Greystone's name did not seem to bother Mr. Bristol in the least. As president of a rather large company he was used to people trying to blindside him to prove their own point.

"Miss Greystone? It must have been about a week ago. I had met with her a few times about the bicentennial but at our last meeting she hinted that she wanted more than just an interview."

Sherlock's skepticism that anyone, let alone a 26-year-old journalist, would want more than just an interview from this man showed in the slight tilt he gave to his head. Watson shifted his weight.

"And what was your response?"

"That I was flattered, of course, but that I was a happy, old, workaholic bachelor. She persisted, so I had her shown out as politely as possible. I gave orders for her to be restricted from the building and to forward any further requests for interviews by phone."

"One last thing," said Sherlock, "are these implements your personal property?" He gestured to the cabinets behind Mr. Bristol.

"Oh no, not all of them. Most of them are part of the company museum; I just keep them in here to enhance the atmosphere. I am, however, also a private collector and have some of the more rare pieces at home."

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Bristol."

"And where are we going now?" Watson asked, finding himself once more in a taxi.

"To Bristol's house in Knightsbridge."

"What if he suspects something and comes home early?"

"He won't."

"How can you be sure?"

"He said it himself, he's a workaholic. He's also proud, which means he thinks highly of his own skills as a business man and liar, so no doubt he thinks he has fooled us."

"But he hasn't."

"Of course not."

Sherlock knew John was nonplussed so he elaborated, less for the sake of his partner and more because traffic was crawling and they hadn't yet reached their destination.

"He put his hands in his pockets when asked about Haley Greystone; in his case a passive aggressive move that betrayed his nerves. He needed to appear in charge in order to hide his lie. Then there was his day planner- all of is appointments from this morning had been rescheduled, so clearly he had a late night last night."

"And the stuff in the cabinets?"

"He thinks of the company as his and therefore the company's property as his own. There were voids in the dust that suggested he occasionally swapped items out. It wasn't just kitsch either, some of it was highly technical equipment, so he is most likely extremely familiar with the chemistry behind tea, including-"

"Caffeine," finished Watson.

"Precisely."

"Where are we going? I thought we needed to see Mr. Bristol's house," Watson asked as they went up the path of the house next door.

"Preliminary research," Sherlock responded.

"Hello," he said to a young woman who opened the door. "I'm taking a poll for _The Daily Star_ about common causes of sleep deprivation. Would you place 'neighbors' lower or higher on a list of these causes?"

"Normally low, but after last night, definitely higher up."

"Great! Thanks for your time."

"And what did that tell us?" Watson said as they crossed into Mr. Bristol's yard.

"That this was likely the place of Haley Greystone's murder."

He knocked on the door rather loudly, certain that the woman they had just spoken too was still watching them from her window. When he received no answer they walked on to the house on the opposite side.

"What are we doing? Didn't we need to get inside?"

"Yes, but the woman from the first house was watching. This neighbor, however, is on vacation so they won't mind if we climb their fence."

There was a side-entrance to Mr. Bristol's house that Sherlock picked open. He started searching at once, crossing hastily from one room to the next. Watson followed a little more carefully, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.

"Here," said Sherlock from the living room. "What do you see?"

"I see…" Watson looked around, trying to find what Sherlock wanted him to. "Nothing."

"Wrong. This chair," he pointed to one of a set of matching armchairs, "has been knocked slightly askew. A china teacup was recently broken here but it wasn't just tea that was cleaned off the floor. He used bleach, so it must have been something stronger, something fouler. This window is also directly opposite the bedroom of the nanny in the house next door, who would have been kept awake by the light."

"So he did it; Mr. Bristol murdered Haley Greystone."

"Yes. But why? What didn't he want the world to know?"

His body stayed motionless but his eyes flickered around the room.

"John- look for a safe or lockbox, something inconspicuous. Whatever Haley Greyson found out he didn't want anyone else knowing- not the public and certainly not anyone at his own company, so he wouldn't hide the documents in his office, he would hide them here. He has a maid service so he's bound to have at least one secure place in the house where he could leave it. We need to find that place before Lestrade gets here."

"Lestrade's coming? When did you call him?"

"I didn't- the lady next door did, about 5 minutes ago. Given the time of day and traffic, I'd say we have approximately 9 minutes."

Watson took the downstairs while Sherlock raced to the first floor. Beside the bedroom was a den, similar in style to his office. Scattered across the bookshelves were more of Mr. Bristol's tea paraphernalia. One set of shelves had a glass front with lock and evidence of humidity control. Sherlock started towards it when something caught his eye. On the desk was a 19th century tea casket. Overall it was in fairly good condition but it was the lock that intrigued him. The rest of the casket was authentic and someone had gone through a lot of trouble to make the lock look so too. He grabbed it off the desk and went back downstairs.

"Any luck?" He asked Watson, then peered out the window. Flashing lights were making their way down the street.

"None at all. What's that you have?"

"The evidence. Come now, let's go have a word with the Inspector."

"Are you ready?"

"For what?" Sherlock was just finishing writing up the case of Haley Greyson.

"The double date. With me and Sarah."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I can't."

"No, no; you can go."

"But I never found a date."

"That's okay, we found one for you."

"What? Who?"

"So you're an American?" Sarah asked Lizzie as they tried to make small talk while waiting to order.

"Yes, although I've been an expat for 5 years. First for school in Australia and then three years here."

"And what do you do?"

"I'm a gastronomer- a historian of food in culture."

"Oh wow, that sounds interesting."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was just another fancy name for a job without a purpose. Boring.

"It is, really, although not for everyone." Lizzie raised her eyebrow at Sherlock. "Not like catching murderers."

"Clearly."

"Speaking of which, what did you find out about Haley Greyson?"

"Mr. Bristol killed her by serving her a lethal dose of caffeine. He did it to cover up his company's use of slave labour on its plantations. She had threatened to contact the Tea Council and have all Whinging products pulled at once until they changed their policies. But with a knighthood in the future Bristol couldn't risk any bad publicity and tried to silence her. Unfortunately the only publicity he'll be getting from now on is going to of the bad variety."

"Well congratulations. John, I look forward to seeing it written up. Your writing has much more style than that of your colleague." She smirked at Sherlock.

"I don't have time to bother with _style_," he said with faint disdain.

"And yet you dress with it," she shot back.

Across the table John smiled at Sarah. It took someone special to not be intimidated by Sherlock and someone extraordinary to return his banter. Maybe this double-date would be more than a one-off.


End file.
